


Chasing Galaxies

by calmdad



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crash Landing, Gen, M/M, Polyamory, Pre-established Sheith
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 11:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12409350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calmdad/pseuds/calmdad
Summary: A universe between the Champion and home, an obstacle between a prince and his throne, a year of waiting, watching, and wondering for the one always left behind.Shiro comes home with an unexpected tagalong. Keith harbors not one but two fugitives. Lotor plans to reinvent an Empire.





	Chasing Galaxies

If his father thinks that Lotor is just going to take his exile like a good little yupper, bowing and scraping and saying his pretty pleases the whole way through, then 10,000 years on the throne have truly driven the old buzzard senile. Little excursions like this are becoming so common that it feels like routine for him to slip away from his post in the Askyria system and take a detour to the nearest fleet on patrol. If his generals hold any suspicions about his disappearances, they said nothing and dutifully kept his cover whenever he'd be missed.

There are few people he'd cross the universe for, but his girls make being cast out to the furthest reaches of the Empire bearable, and for that, he's forever grateful.

When it comes to stealth missions, there's no such thing as subtle for a unit like that, so it falls to Lotor to take these trips alone, something he savors in the privacy of his own thoughts. Moments of solitude come few and far between at the edge of the universe where a disgraced heir is no better than the rest of these scoundrels and slackers; everybody thought to try their hand at testing his patience and there was no end to the challengers in their pathetic excuse for a gladiator ring.

Which brings him here. It's a rare occasion having the Emperor's own fleet within a day's flight from Askyria when more often than not, father dearest preferred to forget the frozen chunk of space where he'd tossed his failure existed at all. There was no way he'd let the opportunity pass him by. Getting onto the ship poses no issue; after the first few dozen times he'd tried this stunt, Lotor had collected the credentials of plenty of officers eager to give up a uniform or a hand when he needed one. Lesser nobility whose rank didn't permit them to stick with the main fleet full-time are forever coming and going to spectate, and all Lotor has to do is pull up his cowl and join the flow as eager Galra of every color and stripe race to pack the stands.

Before he even enters the massive chambers, the roar of the crowd filled his ears, their chants indistinct but carrying an undercurrent of hunger that has Lotor swept up in a wave of uncharacteristic giddiness. Now this, this is entertainment done right. Backwater imitations could never hope to compare to the glory of combat held in an arena with so much history, thousands of matches fought, lives lost, victories forever immortalized long after its immaculate stage had been swept clear. In that instant, everything in him itches to shove past all in his way and take his place in the center of the ring where he belongs--

Right as his gaze flits to the topmost box, best seat in the house if there ever were one. The Emperor doesn't often make appearances at gladiator matches, but when he does, the results are guaranteed to be extraordinary. That must be what has the crowd more riled than usual, and just like that, the eagerness that was building in him disappears, leaving only a hollow bitterness that claws at the confines of his stomach, seeking release. The space around Lotor expands; evidently his foul change in mood is garnering notice. For a split second, it seems as though Zarkon's gaze has turned on him, making Lotor's blood run frigid, before the sensation passes and he can manage to clamp a tight hand over his temper.

Patience. There will be plenty of time for that later. Brick by brick, he's going to take his father's legacy out from under him and send the whole thing toppling into the dirt. Patience.

A deafening roar pulls him from the tangle of his own thoughts, signalling that the first contender is about to make their entrance. Despite himself, Lotor presses forward to catch a better glimpse, and leans back again disappointed with what he finds. Some kind of alien or another, battered and pale, fragile by any Galra's standard. He looks for all the world like a sneeze would topple him and Lotor waits patiently for the fevered shouts to turn to a murmur of confusion, but it doesn't come. If anything, they're getting louder, and any idiot could deduce that this one has a reputation.

Now there's a thought. Looking closer, Lotor can just manage to make out the flash of a metal prosthetic. This would be the Witch's handiwork, or crown him Emperor right then and there. If he were closer, he might be able to smell the magic coming off of it, burnt ozone in his nostrils. Then this must be Zarkon's pet fighter, another show of might for the old codger to parade around, all while he's too milk-soft to get in the ring himself. Lotor has half a mind to turn heel and leave in disgust, but then this pet's opponent, big as a weblum and looking twice as nasty, lumbers out to bellow its challenge. The cries grow louder until finally, he can manage to make out the word: "Champion! Champion!"

And Lotor falls, hard and fast, into the kind of fascination any warrior would recognize.

Tracking his every movement is difficult when there are thousands of other spectators getting in his way, but whenever his vision is obscured by a pumping fist or standing ovation, the Champion doesn't disappoint. He moves in a way that Lotor has rarely encountered before, accustomed to the traditional Galra technique of Charge, Hack, Slash. One really has to give it up for the classics, it doesn't get more basic than that, but this is something more. The Champion does not aim for glory, hard and fast, but strategy. He ducks under cover, waits for an opportunity, then darts out to take shots, weaves underneath two massive legs to find his opponent's blind spot, and always, he thinks two steps ahead.

Over and over again, he battles, his enemies growing bigger, stronger, more crafty. One hard-won victory after another, the Champion makes his mark in the gladiator ring, and Lotor can feel his increasing exhaustion as if it's his own. He knows the acute burn of muscles extended far beyond their means, knows the acrid taste of sweat from exertion that seems without end. Still, he doesn't want this to end with his Champion reduced to a bloody smear on the stage, and just when he looks about ready to keel over, Zarkon rises.

A hush falls over the crowd. No one dares speak. Again, Lotor feels the same knot of hatred in his stomach, but with it comes relief as his beloved father waves a massive hand and a pair of Druids slink into the ring to retrieve their prize. He resists, at first, then slumps into their iron grip, the fight gone from him now. Zarkon watches their escort with his impassive, reptilian stare before he turns and disappears into the exit at his back. With their Emperor out of sight, the people can voice their discontent without courting execution, and boos fill the air.

It's not worth it to see what other pathetic show they might put on as a replacement. There's no substituting that, not in a million decaphoebs. Lotor can still feel the remains of electric energy thrumming through his veins, urging him to push through the throng of Galra eager for a followup. It stays with him as he steals into tucked-away corridors, pulses in time with his count of the sentry patrols, and trails after him like an eager yupper at his heels. When he finally deems it safe enough to enter, the doors of the med bay whirr open and shut.

Whatever he was envisioning, a friendly exchange of combat techniques or even the clumsy scaling of a language barrier between two aliens, Lotor is afforded neither. For one, the Champion is under heavy sedation, making chitchat nigh impossible. For another, either this pet fighter is under much higher security clearance than he gave Zarkon credit for, or the witch can taste his presence in the air, but whatever the case may be, he's just tripped an alarm.

In a situation like this, there is nobody too well-bred to let the opportunity for a timely, "Quiznak!" pass them by.

The lights pulse furious red as a siren blares, telling every member of the main fleet to stay on high alert, and Lotor knows that sentries and soldiers won't be far behind. Images of him kneeling before his father, stepping onto the gallows, the anguished faces of his girls regretting ever letting him leave, all flashing through his head in the same instant that he makes his decision.

Nowhere in the universe is safe. The Emperor's hand extends far, but there are places his gaze had yet to touch, and his one hope of getting there laid right in front of him. With a grunt of effort, Lotor rips off the restraints holding the Champion and tosses him over his shoulder; now is no time to be delicate. They have to move, fast.

Carrying a bundle of dead weight is a challenge even for the greatest among them, but his skill with swordplay rivaling the best in the universe is no idle boast. With one touch of his armor, a sword appears in his hand and out the door he goes, cutting hunks of robotics to ribbons.

Granted, he suffers more than his fair share of grazes and his legs are burning both with effort and the heat of a lucky laser by the time he manages to find an unmanned cruiser standing by. Shoving the Champion inside poses an issue that costs him precious ticks of escape time, but finally, finally, they achieve liftoff and Lotor can breathe.

With his getaway vehicle's DNA recognition system, he learns a lot about his sleeping passenger on the way to where records indicate he was captured. For one, this Champion, better known as Prisoner 117-9875, is actually called Takashi Shirogane. Lotor recalls with grim recognition that the torturers in charge of prison sects will force a captive to give up their name, just so it can be stripped from them.

"Well then, Takashi Shirogane," he says to empty air, "let's see what planet could have possibly come up with you." The tiny speck of rock that serves as his first stop can't possibly be the one he's looking for. There are no signs of life on this or any planet nearby, and it's with resignation that he goes down the line until he finds what he's looking for-- a blue planet teeming with life, a veritable fountain of quintessence that Lotor can't fathom how his father's witch hadn't sunk her gnarled claws into it yet.

But as with all things, his luck has a way of turning sideways just when he thought himself out of the asteroid field. As soon as they begin their descent into this planet's atmosphere, a problem makes itself known the only reasonable way: by screaming at him. The engine that had held out all through their journey in empty space couldn't handle the sudden change in atmospheric pressure with the number of holes shot into them he hadn't noticed until now.

A passionate encore, this time with feeling: "Quiznak!"

If he were lucky, Takashi Shirogane wouldn't feel a thing as they plummeted to their deaths. If Lotor were lucky (and he won't count on that), he might at least slow their descent enough not to earn them a spot as a gruesome splatter on the surface of this watery planet.

For once, Lotor doesn't like his odds.


End file.
